by Ayisha Malik
‘It’s . . . Oh God.’
‘What?’
I paused. ‘A circumcision.’
He looked at me, his face unmoved. ‘A what?’
‘You know . . . a circumcision,’ I said, pretending my hands were scissors. ‘She thinks you should have one.’
We stared at each other for a few seconds as he pursed his lips, not taking his eyes off me, the hint of a smile appearing.
‘Don’t, it’s not funny. She’s serious,’ I replied, unable to hold back my laughter.
‘Is she high?’ he asked.
‘I think she might be.’
He leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. ‘Do you think we should pretend?’
‘Knowing her she’ll want photographic evidence.’
He laughed. ‘Christ, your mum can be great craic.’
As I watched him sign his cheque I thought: we have to be OK.
‘You’re such a dinosaur – do an online transfer like normal people,’ I said.
‘Don’t trust it. Speaking of,’ he replied, looking up. ‘Don’t listen to your editor. You say what you want to say, not because you have to.’
I was about to respond when I noticed the cheque was for a lot more than I thought Sean paid. Conall paused.
‘I send money. To Claire.’
Another pothole. I went back to looking at my computer. We both sat in silence for the rest of the morning and I had to wonder, what is the point of ever laughing with him when I just never know when the next pothole might appear?
8.50 p.m. I was writing about marital bliss while Conall booked tickets to Ireland to go and see his ex-wife and child.
Note for book: Do extensive search on partner’s past in case of unknown family lurking somewhere in another country.
‘You’re still writing the book then?’ Conall asked.
‘Not much choice now.’ I looked up at him. ‘Don’t say there’s always a choice. Sometimes there isn’t,’ I added.
‘Don’t I know that,’ he mumbled.
I’m not sure if he was referring to me writing the book or how life seems to have panned out.
‘Listen . . .’ He seemed bothered as I looked up at him again. ‘If you want to come to Ireland, I can book two tickets.’
Did I want to know what happened when he went there? Who said what, and the way Claire might look at him? Yes. Did I want to witness it before my very own eyes; shifting and shuffling to try and fit into their foreign framework? No.
‘Oh,’ I replied.
‘It’s fine. You don’t have to. I just . . .’ He went back to looking at the laptop screen.
‘I don’t know,’ I replied.
‘No, it’s fine,’ he said. ‘Of course. Only if you want.’
What do I want?
Sunday 5 May
8.10 a.m. Woke up thinking, no man is an island. It was all very philosophical for a Sunday morning with Conall’s head stuck under his pillow. Despite past events, I still like having sex with my husband – the closeness of him; his breath on my neck; the way he’ll stroke my hair afterwards and look at me so that it’s impossible for me not to love him. It made me want to smother him with the pillow. I hate myself a little for all this dependency. Tried calling Suj last night (cinema with Charles), Foz (at an exhibition with a friend), Han (finishing medical article and then having dinner with Omar), Maria (date night with Tahir), Katie (spin class followed by drinks with Tom) and realised the further inconvenience of emotional dependency – and not just to do with husband. How independent can a person be when they constantly need to discuss the choice they should make?
Note for book: Who you think you are and who you are can sometimes end up being two very different things.
Tuesday 7 May
9.45 a.m.
From: Sofia Khan
To: Sakib Awaan
Subject: Everything but the Other
Hi, hope you’re well. I’ve attached the MS with track changes. TBH, it’s not really my cup of tea – bit on the navel-gazing side. Is the woman Asian? Big up to the BAME.
Sofia.
Probably a good idea not to say ‘big up’ to your editor, but as with many things in life, it can sometimes be too late.
4.15 p.m.
From: Sakib Awaan
To: Sofia Khan
Subject: Re: Everything but the Other
That was quick. Didn’t expect so much detail. Look forward to reading your thighs.
Thighs??
From: Sakib Awaan
To: Sofia Khan
Subject: Re: Everything but the Other
Thoughts! God. Sorry. Damn autocorrect. I’d be grateful if you didn’t sue me for sexual harassment.
Really sorry.
Sakib
It’s good to know that even in the midst of semi-tragedy, I have the ability to laugh.
Wednesday 8 May
11.30 a.m.
From: Sakib Awaan
To: Sofia Khan
Subject: Thank you
Hi Sofia,
Finished reading your comments on the EBTO. Largely agreed with you.
I’m going to turn it down.
Appreciate your comments.
Best,
Sakib
11.35 a.m.
From: Sofia Khan
To: Sakib Awaan
Subject: Another MS?
Glad to be of use. Let me know if there’s anything else you’d like me to read – and feel free to add me to your payroll.
Sofia
Thursday 9 May
11 a.m. Conall was leaving again. Haven’t mentioned his offer to come to Ireland since that day. I think I can get used to the rhythm of this life, though, without having to be immersed in the other side of it.
‘Call you when I get there,’ he said.
And he always does. Like clockwork. He stared at me, as if he were about to say something, when my phone rang.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi, Sofia. Sakib here.’
Conall waited at the door.
Sakib was talking to someone else. ‘Hi, yes, I’d like a decaf latte, large –’
‘I was just –’
‘No: decaf,’ I heard Sakib say. ‘Thanks.’
Conall rested his bag on the sofa.
‘Actually, I think you’d make a great reader. If you’re interested, that is. Honestly, the submissions I have are piling high. It’s fine, keep the change.’
I was too busy glancing at Conall to really pay attention to what Sakib was saying and said I’d have to call him back.
‘Of course. Sorry. I’m working till late, so whenever.’
And he hung up before I said goodbye.
‘What was that?’ asked Conall.
I must’ve been frowning. ‘Oh. I don’t know.’ The words I’d just heard were beginning to sink in. ‘I think Sakib was offering me a job.’
‘Really?’ he said. ‘What kind of job?’
‘I don’t know yet. I said I’d call him back.’
He picked his bag up again. ‘Would you be going in and out of the office?’
I shrugged. ‘Why?’
He shook his head. ‘Just wondering.’
I looked at the clock. ‘You don’t want to miss your flight.’
I walked him to the door as he said goodbye, kissing me on the forehead.
11.25 a.m. Spoke to Sakib again.
‘Are you OK?’ he asked.
‘Yeah, why?’
‘Your voice sounds a little a distant.’
‘Oh, sorry.’
He paused and then told me about the job. ‘You’ll pass anything on to me you think is worth considering. You can work from home or come in – up to you. What do you think?’
Seemed like a win–win, really.
‘Sofia?’
‘Yes, OK.’
‘Great. Good . . . You’re sure you’re OK?’
My husband’s in Ireland with his other family. I am just great.
‘He
adache,’ I replied.
‘Well, drink some water, pop a pill and get to work.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good woman.’
2.20 p.m. ‘All this back and forth, back and forth,’ said Mum. ‘How expensive it is.’
‘It’s just Ireland,’ I reasoned.
‘Why doesn’t he stay there until Eeman is better?’
‘It’s Eamon, Mum.’
She frowned, rubbing some kind of lotion on to her arms. Financial matters always have trumped emotional ones for Mum. Just then the doorbell rang and it was Uncle Mouch.
Complete with a basket of wedding presents . . . for Mum.
‘We don’t have our elders to do this for us any more,’ he said. ‘But why shouldn’t your mama enjoy this part of getting married?’
I looked at the multiple outfits that shone with sequins, the gold that was taken out of its box to be appreciated by a mother flushed with . . . well, something.
‘Acha, have we decided if we will have one function here and one in Karachi?’ said Mum.
‘Two functions, of course,’ exclaimed Uncle Mouch. ‘We can even have a third, just the two of us. But that will be our honeymoon, haina, Mehnaz?’ He leaned forward and raised his eyebrows suggestively to Mum. Mum giggled. I think I was going to be sick.
I watched as she brought him tea and he asked how her day had been. What was truly grotesque was that Mum hadn’t seemed to have outgrown blushing whenever he paid her a compliment. Have you changed your hair? That suit looks nice on you. You look younger every day. I had to keep reminding myself of Maria saying that we need to be adults.
‘Beta, how is your . . . husband’s son?’ he asked. ‘It is the worst thing,’ he added. ‘To watch your child go through this much pain.’
It made me wonder what Conall was doing and who was making sure he was OK.
5.15 p.m. Have prayed a lot. For various things, but mostly for contentment. Life never was meant to be easy; it’s being OK with it – even at its shittiest – that’s the real graft.
11.20 p.m.
To Conall: Next time you go to Ireland, fancy taking me with you?
11.25 p.m. He called.
‘Yes, Sofe. I do.’
And apparently there was no time like the present. ‘I’ll book you a ticket for tomorrow.’
I started at the suddenness.
‘Is that too soon?’
Something about Mum carrying on with life with such gusto made me ashamed I wasn’t doing the same.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ll see you Friday.’
Friday 10 May
3.20 p.m. As a child of immigrant parents you’d think I’d appreciate frugality when it comes to things like flying. I chewed my £5 Pringles and rolled my eyes as a round of applause piped through the plane’s speakers to congratulate itself on arriving on time. I told myself that as a person of spiritual matter it’s better to be on a cheap flight to go and see husband than be in first class with someone you want to push out of the flight.
‘So,’ I said as he met me at the airport. ‘This is home?’
He took my bag and looked at me. ‘Didn’t you think you’d stand out enough with a hijab – you had to wear red lipstick too?’
I’d have been annoyed if he hadn’t looked amused. But when we got into the car Conall gripped the steering wheel with both hands, his knuckles becoming whiter than usual. A knot of anxiety expanded in my gut.
‘Let’s go then,’ he said.
I watched the road open up to a cascade of rolling hills on one side, set against a bright blue sky. On the other side the expanse of a dark blue sea stretched out against jagged cliffs. It was like looking through Instagram’s chrome filter. I wound down the window and breathed the fresh air.
Reconciling the Conall I knew to this serene setting felt odd – like trying to insert a piece that belonged to a different puzzle. But when I glanced at him I wondered whether he didn’t fit in perfectly. I caught a glimpse of my hijabbed self in the side-mirror. Now that is out of place.
Conall slowed the car down as a flock of sheep blocked the road. They were being shepherded by a man with a brown hat and grizzly ginger beard, who waved at the car. Conall muttered something under his breath. The man approached the car and looked into it. Conall wound down the window and the noise of the bleating sheep flooded in.
‘Conall?’ said the man. ‘Conall O’Flynn as I live and breathe?’
His eyes flickered towards me and -it might sound like a cliché, but he really did tip his hat at me.
‘Jack.’ Conall shook the man’s hand. ‘How are you?’
And here, I’m afraid, I lost the conversational thread. I leaned in, I focused on the moving lips, the gesticulating hands, the furrow of the brow that was then replaced with a hearty laugh, that was then replaced with a more pensive look, but I could not, for the life of me understand a word of what Jack said. And forget Jack. Suddenly Conall was saying things that didn’t make sense either. I understood ‘Ma and Da . . .’ and ‘wife’ (mostly because Jack then looked at me again and nodded with a benign smile), but other than that I was lost, and quite frankly, it was giving me a headache. I got out a bag of M&M’s.
‘Look after yourself, Jack.’
With which Jack tipped his hat at me again and the last of his sheep bumbled off the road.
‘What was the conversation?’ I said.
This must be how he feels when we’re all talking Urdu. Conall looked at me, starting up the car.
‘Welcome to Kilkee, Sofe.’
Detached houses stood with drystone walls and cobbled paths. The pebbles crunched under the tyres as we turned into a driveway and stopped outside a yellow house. A black-and-white collie came bounding up to us.
‘Jessop! Down, Jessop, c’mere, boy,’ said Conall.
Jessop panted, his tongue lolling around. The front door opened and Mary appeared in her slippers and green, knitted cardigan. Conall and I walked towards her, Jessop still jumping round us.
‘Sofia,’ she said, her arms still folded as I leaned in to give her a kiss.
The first thing I noticed was the quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you want to fill the silence with inane remarks like what a lovely home and weather’s nicer than expected. We wandered into a dimly lit passage where Conall put my bag down, the faint smell of vanilla and dog lingering in the air. There was a table with a collection of photographs and I recognised Conall as a teenager in one of them. I watched real-time Conall telling Mary about bumping into Jack as we walked into the open-plan kitchen. Daylight flooded in through the patio windows.
‘Put the kettle on, won’t you, Conall. I’ll show Sofia into the room.’
He’d already opened the fridge as Mary led me up the wooden spiral staircase.
‘Here we are,’ she said.
A vase with peonies stood in the middle of the windowsill – a huge pane that looked out into the garden downstairs. I looked round at the yellowed newspaper cuttings that were framed on the wall – all of Conall doing some kind of sporting . . . thing.
‘He was a top hurler in school,’ she said, looking at the pictures and smiling. ‘Fierce focus,’ she added.
‘Not much has changed then,’ I replied.
She patted down a crease on the bedspread. ‘I think that quite a lot has changed.’
Did she mean Eamonn, or her son’s religion, or just her son generally?
‘He made mistakes,’ she said, still patting down the bed. ‘Don’t think he hasn’t been given a piece of my mind.’ She paused. ‘But I know he regrets what he’s done – he just buries things. Still, he knows when he’s done wrong – it’s why he won’t ask anything of you.’
What would he want to ask of me? Before she could say anything else the front door slammed shut as we heard: ‘Christ, your son’s been at it again.’
I looked at Mary.
‘Colm! You’ll be wise to know we have company,’ she exclaimed, looking at me.
&nb
sp; ‘Well, he’s an eejit and everyone should know.’
‘Now’s not the time,’ I heard Conall say.
We began making our way down the stairs.
‘Oh, if the prodigal son says so then my lips are sealed.’
Mary walked into the dining area while I stood at the door with Conall’s dad’s back to me.
God, I hate tension. It gives me an ulcer.
‘Well,’ he said, turning to look at me. ‘Let’s see what my son married without so much as an invite to his parents.’
His eyes took in my scarf; his face red and rugged and the distinct smell of alcohol emanating from his mouth. He took me by the shoulders and I saw Conall step forward.
‘Colm, best you sleep this off,’ said Mary.
‘Be good to sleep off this whole nightmare, don’t you think?’ he said, leaning towards me.
I glanced at Conall. ‘A coma right now wouldn’t be a bad thing,’ I replied.
His grip loosened a little as his eyes bored into mine. A few seconds passed as he burst into laughter, putting his arm round me as we walked to the table. Mary’s lips were pursed.
‘So, Sofia,’ he said. ‘Sofia. Isn’t that Catholic?’
‘Sit down, Colm, I’ll make you some food,’ said Mary.
Colm turned his gaze to Conall.
‘Sofia, you know the problem with kids nowadays, don’t you?’ He paused, waiting for an answer. Mad fathers?
‘No,’ I replied.
‘She’s polite, I’ll give you that,’ he said to Conall. Colm leaned forward, squinting at me. ‘They’re too damn sensitive.’
Conall’s hand rested on his forehead.
‘Take our Sean, for example. Sitting on the phone, telling me about his job and promotions and I couldn’t give a . . . well.’ He lifted his hands. ‘I won’t swear in front of a lady. A Muslim one at that.’ He looked at Conall. ‘See, don’t tell me I don’t have respect for people.’
Oh dear.
‘But you can’t say anything to kids nowadays without them telling you you’re being obnoxious. I’m being a parent, you eejit. And as a parent can’t I expect that my kids stay in their home town to run the family business and not want to go and be bankers and photographers?’ He looked at Mary. ‘They’re quick to say how disappointed they are but don’t for a minute think about our disappointment.’ He looked at Conall. ‘The hypocrisy. Bet he’s told you all about what an awful dad I was, hasn’t he?’